


five good men (they're dead)

by lostinanotherworld24



Category: NCIS, SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Overuse of Last Names, Police Procedural, copious amounts of coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinanotherworld24/pseuds/lostinanotherworld24
Summary: When a mission goes horribly awry, Bravo suffers the consequences. It's up to NCIS to put the puzzle together, and figure out who-dun-it.
Relationships: Lisa Davis/Sonny Quinn, Stella Baxter/Clay Spenser
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	five good men (they're dead)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Don't forget to leave a review.

Part of the appeal of his job, Special Agent Jethro Gibbs often thought, was how complicated and intricate cases could get. The team frequently went in thinking a case  _ looked  _ cut and dry, only to find it held more layers than an onion. Lies from witnesses, misleading evidence, or hidden secrets in a person's past could muddy the waters in solving a particular crime. The mystery was separating the right evidence from the useless, peeling back what the killer wanted them to see and finding the hidden. 

This case fits in the "complicated" category.

First Class Petty Officer Clayton Spenser, formerly of SEAL Team Bravo, sat in the interrogation room. His eyes, the color of the sky in summer, were tinged with red from pure exhaustion, and purple bruises decorated his under eye. He looked ready to fall over at the slightest hesitation, evidenced by the slight shaking of his hands and the copious amounts of blinking. 

From all reports, Bravo Team got sent out on a routine mission, with orders to hunt down and capture members of a terrorist cell located in the heart of Afghanistan. Six of them had left on a plane on Monday, and only one of them had come back on Thursday. Statements from his former teammates indicated a man used to going it alone, someone who resented authority and clashed with the powers that be at every possible opportunity. 

Those same former teammates described him as  _ ambitious, stubborn,  _ and  _ determined _ . His superiors described him as  _ outright antagonistic _ , and yet  _ unfailingly loyal. _ Master Chief Jason Hayes had submitted an evaluation of Clay Spenser a year after the kid had joined Bravo and noted that he believed that despite his lone-wolf tendencies, Clay had all the makings of being a team leader someday. High praise, indeed.

So then, how did they get from there to here? Gibbs wondered. How did a man go from being loyal to a fault to possibly murdering his entire team in a single afternoon? Was it the desire for power that he craved, not content to sit on the sidelines and wait? Did the team discover some dirty little secret, one that Clay would kill to keep hidden? 

There were just too many questions and not enough answers

XXXX

Ziva threw her coat over her chair in the squad room and snatched the remote from the edge of Gibbs' desk. She clicked a few buttons, and Clay Spenser's official Naval photo appeared on the screen, with scans of various bits of paperwork backgrounding it. 

"Petty Officer Clay Spenser. Born here in Virginia, his mother died when he was three. At age six, his father, formerly Second Class Petty Officer Ashland Spenser, sent him away to Liberia to live with his maternal grandparents. Spenser moved back to the US at age 15, after his maternal grandparents both perished in a fire. He enlisted when he was 18, and spent his time working his way up the ranks. Bravo Team is his first and only Tier-One assignment, and he's been with them for three years." 

Ziva paused and clicked again. Another photo appeared, this time of Clay and a dark-haired guy smiling with their arms linked. 

"Right before graduating from Green Team training, his best friend, Petty Officer Brian Armstrong, passed away in a freak training accident. His parachute failed to open during a practice jump, and he hit the ground at speed. Reports from that time indicated that Petty Officer Spenser was interviewed by NCIS and cleared, and the official cause of the death is listed as accidental." 

Gibbs nodded and twirled a pen between his fingers. DiNozzo leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked behind his head. 

"That's a lot of psychological stress for any one person to endure. What are we thinking? The kid just snaps, takes out his entire team?" DiNozzo posited. 

"Don't SEALs have to undergo pretty rigorous psychological testing before they become SEALs?" McGee wondered, glancing up from his computer. Gibbs scoffed a little and turned to face the TV screens. His gut told him there was more to the story, but he hadn't yet found the thread to pull that would reveal the larger image. 

"Ah, there are ways around that. Is there anyone outside of the Teams that we could speak with? Girlfriend, old classmates, distant family. Anybody!" 

"He is listed as having a girlfriend, a Miss Stella Baxter. Moved in together October of last year, she works as an English professor at Hudson State. Got the address right here," McGee held up a sticky note with his chicken-scratch scrawled on it. DiNozzo darted across and grabbed it, coat in the other hand. 

"Ziva and I will talk to the girlfriend, see what she thinks," he announced and headed for the elevators.

"I'll keep searching his financials, see if there's anything hinky," McGee added and refocused on his computer. Without another word, Gibbs shoved back his chair and left the bullpen. And silence reigned once again. 

XXX 

At first glance, Ziva couldn't picture Stella Baxter as a military wife. The wives she'd met were strong and had their fair amount of grit, with just enough blandness from years of the military complex screwing them over. Stella seemed to possess none of those qualities, and Ziva didn't think she imagined the resentment in the other woman's voice when she talked about Clay's teammates. 

"So Clay and the other members of Bravo, were they close?" Ziva wondered, pen poised above her notepad. 

"Close? They were  _ beyond  _ close. Less like buddies and more like brothers. They spent every minute of the work-day together, and when they had free time, they were usually with each other. Hitting baseballs in the park, home renovation projects, hiking, or camping trips." 

Ziva nodded and made a note of all of this. 

"When a guy is that close with his friends, usually doesn't leave much room for anything else. Did their closeness ever cause issues in your relationship?" 

Stella paused for a moment and stared out at some distant point. 

"When you get involved with a military guy, you think it'll be the deployments that are hard. Him off in some foreign country, in unimaginable amounts of danger. But it's the coming home that's the hard part. When he's restless, or angry, or listless, and he can't even tell you where he was, let alone what he did. The guys were the best thing to ever happen to him because whatever he went through, he didn't do it alone. So if you're asking me if I think Clay killed his teammates, no. He would have rather killed himself first." 

DiNozzo studied her carefully, before interjecting into the conversation. One wrong word and she could clam up and throw them out. 

"Every man has a price, Miss Baxter." 

Her mouth tightened as she turned to look at him, nailing him down with a glare like a butterfly caught under a pin. Lines decorated the area beside her eyes and around her lips, sure signs of the stress she'd been under. He felt a flash of sympathy for her and certainly didn't envy her position. Then he remembered the crime scene photos and felt that sympathy disappear. 

"That may be true, Agent DiNozzo, but for Clay, that price was  _ not  _ the lives of his brothers. Now," and here she stood and straightened her clothes. "I think I'd like you to leave." 

_ Damn,  _ DiNozzo thought and gave her a polite smile. 

XXXX 

Clay raked his fingers through his hair before rubbing a hand over his face. The fluorescent lights of the interrogation room burned like fire, and even shutting his eyes couldn't erase the glare. He knew this was just part of the game, their way of gauging his reaction before confronting him with evidence. Looking for his weak points to exploit so that they could get a confession. 

_ Well, it just fucking sucks for them that there's nothing to confess, is there?  _ He thought bitterly, nearly choking on it. As if losing all five of his brothers wasn't fucking horrific enough, being accused of their murders was just the cherry on top. It didn't matter that he'd been dazed and confused enough to nearly attack the rescue team that found them, or that Brock had died in Clay's arms, no. All that mattered was that he was the lone survivor. 

He knew that they must be scratching their heads over that, and wanted to tell them exactly how much the idea of being the last man standing repulsed him. He would've died a thousand times in place of any one of them because life fucking sucked without them. They had been his light in this darkness, and his compass pointing north. Now he was lost in the dark and would be for a long time to come. 

Tears wanted to fall, but he stubbornly held them back. Not here, and not now. 

XXXX 

"Get anything from the girlfriend?" McGee inquired as Ziva and Tony walked into the bullpen. From the sour look Tony sent him and the frustrated huff Ziva gave, he guessed probably not. Well, he'd had just as much luck. Petty Officer Spenser's financials had proven to hold precisely zero evidence of motivation for the killings. His bank records were absent of any recent steep withdrawals or deposits, and it seemed the only big purchase he'd ever made had been his car, right after completing basic training. 

He told them as much, watched as their frustration visibly mounted. He was reaching near-nuclear levels too because Gibbs had been riding them twice as hard as usual. After all, the Director was riding  _ him  _ harder than usual. A Tier-One unit getting slaughtered wasn't exactly a day at the beach, and had everyone involved on their toes.

Spenser's call logs proved just as useless, with no mysterious numbers or patterns found. It seemed the only people he called were his teammates, their associated families, and his girlfriend, with the occasional exception being take-out places or stores. All in all, it seemed Spenser was your average 28-year-old military guy, with absolutely zero shreds of evidence to indicate otherwise. 

"Guys, what if Spenser  _ isn't _ the killer?" McGee tossed out. DiNozzo sighed and leaned back in his chair while Ziva leaned forward and rested her chin in one palm. 

"Why leave him alive? Why not just kill him with all the rest?" DiNozzo wondered. McGee considered this for a moment, before proffering, 

"Maybe to send a message?" 

"Sends the message that our troops are more vulnerable than we think, that they can and will kill whoever they'd like," Ziva stood and wandered to the middle of the room, perching on the edge of Gibbs' desk. She studied the screen for a moment, glancing behind her at the sound of footsteps, Gibbs came in then and sat down, fingers tapping for a bit at his computer before grabbing the remote and pressing buttons a couple of times. 

Various scientific graphs and charts appeared on the screen then, along with photographs of the corpses of Bravo Team

"Petty Officer Spenser is  _ not  _ our killer, but that doesn't mean he's not still connected in some way." 

"How do you know that, Boss?" McGee asked, withering a bit under the glare Gibbs shot him. 

"First Class Petty Officer Brock Reynolds, call sign Bravo Five. Reports from the rescue team indicate he was found in Spenser's arms, and Abby tells me the angle of the bullet says it would be impossible for Spenser to have been both holding Reynolds and have killed him." 

"Who says he's still involved?" DiNozzo questioned, tossing a balled-up piece of paper in the air. 

"You don't just take out an elite team of Navy SEALs accidentally. Their execution was deliberate, and we have to assume that everything about this was part of a plan.  _ Including  _ the decision to leave Petty Officer Spenser alive! Start looking into the deceased, find out if any connections could indicate why they were killed." 

Something sparks in McGee's mind, and he's reminded of an essential piece of information. He clears his throat and stands up, picking up the remote and pulling up the service records of Clay's father, former Petty Officer Ashland Spenser. 

"I did find something interesting, boss. Now while Petty Officer Spenser may have had a near-perfect service record, his  _ father  _ is not so squeaky-clean. Ashland Spenser was born in Connecticut but spent most of his childhood in Maine. When he was 12, his father killed his mother and was subsequently caught and sent to jail. Ashland was shuffled into the foster care system, where he remained until the age of 18, at which point he enlisted in the Navy. 

Now, he also became a SEAL and served with Alpha Unit for over ten years. His teammates described him as distant, difficult, and a pain in the ass. After leaving the Navy, he wrote a book which spilled valuable secrets and was PNG'd as a result. He since has written two more books, and recently gave an interview in which he implied he was fed intel from an unnamed source, or someone within the Teams. I can't get access to insider intel, but so far, no one has indicated that Clay is considered a suspect." 

Gibbs nodded and grabbed a folder from off his desk, striding briskly away in the direction of the interrogation rooms. Tony sent Ziva a look, and they followed.

XXXX 

The slamming of the door against the wall pulled Clay out of his light doze, and he watched through blurry eyes as Agent Gibbs set down a file on the opposite side of the table. He took his seat a moment later and sipped from a coffee held in his hand. Clay knew he was expected to say something first, and deliberately does the exact opposite. 

"I don't think you're the killer," Gibbs informed him in a low tone. Clay rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his brain. 

"Give the man a prize; you figured out what I already knew." 

Gibbs nodded slowly, sipping from his coffee again. 

"What I can't figure out is why you're not dead too." 

The laugh that escaped Clay was more bitter than he'd like, but he cannot fucking help it. He'd been wracking his brain for days, replaying what happened over and over, wondering why they left him alive. In the end, he'd been as fucked as any of them, an easy target for execution. Instead, they'd looked at him, laughed, and walked away, disappearing in the haze of blood that obscured his vision. 

"Well, let me know when you do, cause I can't figure it out either." 

"Think your father has anything to do with it, maybe?" 

Clay rubbed a hand over his face, feels the rough scrape of his unshaven chin. 

"Maybe, I don't know. There are certainly plenty of guys who feel more than a mild dislike for Ash, but no one that I know of feels strongly enough to do something like this. I mean, I'm just as lost as you are, Agent Gibbs. It just doesn't make sense," he admits. "The guys, they were my  _ brothers,  _ y' know? They were everything to me. I was the only one without any 'real' family, and without them, I don't even have that." 

He let that hang in the air for a second, before confessing in a low tone, 

"It should've been me. And the fact that it wasn't will haunt me for the rest of my days." 

He was cut loose soon after, and on the way home strongly contemplated driving into the river. 

XXXX 

Stella dumped another spoonful of sugar into her coffee, and after half a beat, added another one. She'd been right in the middle of a much-needed nap when the fucking NCIS agents had shown up, flashing their shiny badges and asking to come in. Of course, she'd done so but hadn't been the least bit happy about it. It had already been the week from absolute hell, and the interview was just another thing she didn't need. 

The door opened behind her, and she turned to see Clay collapse onto the couch. The silence between them was cumbersome and uncertain, like summer air right before a storm, but it seemed neither of them had the heart to break it. He buried his face in his hands, back heaving as he gasped for breath. She knew he was on the edge of shattering entirely and wanted to go to him, but respected him enough to retreat for a bit and give him the space to work through it on his own. Eventually, she came back in and saw he'd flicked the TV on, although he was staring at his hands.

"Well, guess I'm not a suspect anymore," he announced quietly.

"That's good to hear, babe." 

He gave a weak smile before letting it meld into a distracted frown. Words hovered on the tip of her tongue, but none of them were the right ones. What was there to say? That she was fucking  _ sorry  _ that they died? Of course, she was sorry, she and everyone else who had a brain in their heads.  _ Sorry _ was too small of a word to cover the enormity of the tragedy that occurred, that and any other words she could produce.

Abruptly, Clay stripped his shirt off and walked into the bedroom. She could hear the rustle of his pants falling to the floor and the soft rattle of a pill bottle being opened and closed. When she went in a few minutes later, he was on his side and fast asleep. She pulled the blankets up a little more, sat on the edge of the bed, and cried silently. 

XXXX 

The next morning dawned cold and rainy, worsening Gibbs' already terrible mood. He sipped from his coffee and stared out the full windows that nearly took up a whole wall of the third floor. This latest case had too many damn variables, and not enough constants, to the point where any investigating felt like spinning their wheels instead of actual progress. 

Tony stood up with a file in hand and crossed the room, passing it to Gibbs. Usually, the younger man might have filled the air with nervous chatter, but he knew his boss was too on-edge to tolerate it. Instead, he kept his distance and let Gibbs take in the information for himself. 

Inside the file held dossiers for the late Bravo Team members, every critical detail of their lives inked in black and white. Tony caught the edge of an orange sticky note and remembered an important facet that hadn't yet come up in the investigation. He cleared his throat, waited for his boss to look at him. 

"While I was researching, I discovered a note written by Senior Chief Perry in Spenser's files that we haven't come across before. Apparently, on the kid's first deployment with Bravo, he and Petty Officer Quinn got into an argument that nearly led to a fight and had to be broken up by other team members. While Perry noted that he wasn't sure what exactly the fight was about, he felt it significant enough to make a mention of it." 

"Yesterday, Petty Officer Spenser's girlfriend didn't mention him having issues with other members of Bravo at all. Admittedly we didn't get very far before she threw us out," Ziva interjected as she glanced up from her computer. 

"Petty Officer Quinn, he have a girlfriend?" 

"None listed, although Lt. Commander Blackburn did inform me that he was close with Lisa Davis, the logistics officer for Bravo," Tony replied. 

"Bring her in, see what she says." 

XXXX 

Lisa Davis was someone that Ziva immediately liked, a feeling new enough that it startled her a bit. There was a fire and a steeliness in the other woman's eyes that she could relate to, the kind that came from both loving and losing and carrying on despite it, in picking up the pieces of a shattered heart. She also carried with her a sort of palpable sorrow, evident in the way she worked hard to use the formal names and titles of her dead as if distancing herself a bit so as not to get overwhelmed. 

"How would you characterize your relationship with Petty Officer Quinn?" Ziva wondered. Lisa's eyes went impossibly soft for a moment before she hardened her jaw, and Ziva knew the answer before she ever spoke a word. 

"Friendly. Barbeques, beers after work, that sort of thing."

"Did he ever mention having problems with Petty Officer Spenser?" 

At this, Lisa laughed a little, although the sound was choked and hoarse. She smiled genuinely for a moment before it faded away. 

"The problem with Sonn _ -Petty Officers Quinn and Spenser  _ was that they were too much alike. They were both hot-headed guys with a bit of wild streak, who would run their mouths to anybody that they damn well pleased. If you're referring to that stupid fight in J-Bad, then that's all it was.  _ Stupid,"  _ here she rolled her eyes, although it was a bit of an affectionate gesture. "The guys were coming off a tough loss and rubbed each other the wrong way. But they got over it." 

"Did Petty Officer Spenser have problems with anyone else?" 

"He and Master Chief Hayes bumped heads occasionally, but that comes with the territory with Petty Officer Spenser. He's not your friend until he is, and then it's pretty much smooth sailing from there. You just got to find your way in, that's all. If you're asking if I think he could have had something to do with this, then absolutely not. He's hot-headed and arrogant, but not cruel or sadistic. He would have rather cut off his left arm then do something like this, and I'd bet my career on that," 

"Did Petty Officer Quinn have any personal problems? Problems with any other SEAL?" 

Lisa considered this for a moment, mouth falling into a thoughtful frown. She shook her head a moment later, ponytail brushing the back of her fatigues. 

"No. I mean, he had guys who he disliked, but none of it was ever serious enough for something so drastic. And he wasn't into gambling, although he did enjoy drinking. But he always paid his tab and never spent more than he could afford to. Most of it was just harmless fun, a way to blow off steam from the job. That's all." 

XXXX

"Well, Davis gave us plenty, but nothing that can point us in the direction of anything. According to her, while Quinn and Spenser did have issues, it was merely their personalities clashing and not anything serious. She also said that Quinn did have enemies, but none who would pull off something like this. I think she was telling the truth." 

Gibbs sighed for what felt like the thousandth time and dug in his coat pocket for a set of car keys. He tossed them to DiNozzo, and let out a sharp whistle, an indication for McGee to follow. 

"Where are we going, Boss?" Tony questioned as he snatched up his backpack and coat. 

"Go to the base and search their cages. Find something we can use, something that will point us in a direction. I mean, there's gotta be  _ something  _ that will tell us why these men were killed."

They did as ordered, more than a little glad for the reprieve from the office's tense atmosphere. 

XXXX 

McGee couldn't help but feel immensely saddened upon walking into Bravo's personal quarters, as he often did when searching someone's home or office. It was always painful to look at the pieces of an abruptly-stopped life, with every bit screaming that the victim had no clue they'd never return. He steeled himself mentally and went over to the farthest cage, keys from the base commander at the ready. 

Unexpectedly, the door opened behind them, and they turned to see Petty Officer Spenser coming through the door. A dark-haired man followed behind him, his fatigues reading  _ Lt. Commander Blackburn.  _ There was an awkward moment as the two groups regarded each other before Spenser's face darkened with anger. Blackburn must have sensed this as he preemptively put a hand on the younger man's arm. 

"What-what are you doing?" Spenser asked, hands balling into fists. DiNozzo raised his hands placatingly. 

"We're just looking to see if we can find any indication as to why this happened." 

"Well, I can tell you there's nothing there," Spenser informed them. "So, you can just leave, okay." 

"Spenser," Blackburn murmured. "They're just doing their jobs." 

"That's fine, as long as it doesn't involve going through their stuff. That's personal and off-limits." 

"We're not gonna take anything; we're just looking to see what's there." 

" _ I don't care,"  _ Spenser snapped, lunging forward a little. McGee's hand instinctively came to rest on his Glock, although it proved unnecessary as Blackburn's hand closed around Spenser's arm. The younger man was abruptly jerked back, like a dog finding the edge of their leash. He tried to shake off the hand, but Blackburn held firm. 

"There may not be a Bravo anymore, and I may be without a team, but that doesn't mean I'm going to abandon my post. I'm still Bravo Six until someone tells me otherwise, and that means these remain Bravo's cages. As a Bravo member, I'm  _ telling  _ you to get the fuck out and leave their stuff alone. Now  _ go,  _ before I have to show you the door." 

Rage and grief lay coiled just underneath Spenser's skin, and the younger man was a clear hair-trigger away from coming down on both of them, the consequences be damned. Blackburn inclined his head and murmured something into Spenser's ear, before yanking him back through the door in which they came. McGee shared a look with DiNozzo before they popped open the locks and began their tasks. 

At one point, Spenser and Blackburn slipped back into the room, although neither man said anything. Their gazes burned hot on the backs of both of the agents, and it was like touching the surface of the sun when they came across piles of letters rubber-banded together. DiNozzo had begun to work one open when Spenser surged forward and attempted to yank it out of his hand. 

" _ Clay!" _ Blackburn's voice boomed, and although Spenser slowed, he didn't stop. DiNozzo didn't want a fight, and honestly just tried to fend him off without actually hurting him. Spenser was obviously raring for one and would've hit him square in the jaw if a burly man hadn't rushed in and enveloped him in a bear-hug. Spenser was dragged from the room again, protestations about those being private falling on deaf ears. It was never fun to drag out people's darkest secrets throughout an investigation, and that sadness rushed in again like the tide. McGee and DiNozzo finished their work both as thoroughly and quickly as they could, lest they invoke a repeat performance. They did end up having to break their word and confiscate some things, but they tucked those away in evidence bags and honestly prayed Clay wouldn't notice. Thankfully he was not there for the rest of their visit, though Blackburn was. 

He shoved off the wall as they came out of the room and extended his hand. Grief was painted on him, evident in the tight lines of his eyes and around his mouth. McGee observed him for the thirty seconds they shook hands and could see this was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He led them into his office and invited them to take a seat. 

"I apologize for what happened with Clay- as you can see, he hasn't been taking this all that well." 

"We understand," DiNozzo assured him. Blackburn poured a cup of coffee from a pot on his desk, and took a sip, staring out the window for a moment. He shook his head a little and sat down, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. 

"You probably have some questions, I'd imagine."

"We do. Can you think of anyone who might have done something like this?" 

"Yes, I can. We worked to keep it quiet, only alerting Master Chief Hayes, but there's been chatter recently that Ashland Spenser has been having some money problems. Some time back, he attended a poker game with some... _ questionable  _ characters and ended up betting more than he had. He lost, and now those people have been looking for their payday. Now, these people take their finances extremely seriously, and it would not be out of the norm  _ at all  _ for them to pull something like this to scare Ash Spenser into paying up. We also believe that's the reason that Clay was left alive: as a warning to his father." 

DiNozzo and McGee shared a look, something like hope alighting in both of their eyes. Blackburn sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a measured breath.

"We didn't inform Clay of this intel, frankly because we didn't want to increase his guilt. He already feels horrible enough that they didn't make it, and telling him something like this would crush him completely." 

"Who do you suspect is behind this?"

"The Sinaloa Cartel, out of Northwestern Mexico," a file was laid on the desk in between the men, and DiNozzo picked it up and began to flip through it. "Now, they've had ties to the Taliban and to Al-Qaeda, which means they are extremely well-connected enough to be able to pull this off. They also have sleeper agents here in DC, who are likely the ones who arranged this whole thing." 

DiNozzo nodded and tucked the file away in his backpack. His heart raced with anticipation because, finally, a light had shone in the darkness, pointing them on their way. 

XXXX 

McGee peered in the front window of a neat, well-kept house in Alexandria. A Latino man sat sprawled on the couch, watching a soccer match on the wall-mounted TV. Beside him, slightly obscured by a pillow, lay an AK-47. After a moment's pause, he and Gibbs breached the front door, while Ziva and Tony covered the back. 

The man on the couch attempted to fight back, instinctively grabbing for his weapon, but soon abandoned that after a gunshot wound to the hand. Ziva and Tony dragged another man from the back bedroom, a slightly balding Arabic guy who mostly swore at them. Tell-tale tattoos covered his wrists and arms, and they knew then that they had the right man. In short order, they took them to headquarters, calling in a crime scene team on the way to finish processing the house. 

Clay Spenser stood in the bullpen, leaned against DiNozzo's desk. At the ding of the elevator, his head shot up, and his gaze connected with Gibbs. The older man just gave him a nod and led the suspects towards the interrogation rooms. McGee snuck a glance at Clay and watched as he covered his eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. 

A week later, Clay sat on a bench in the middle of Arlington, with a pair of dog tags looped around his fingers. He felt the presence of someone behind him and smiled faintly, although he knew his companion couldn't tell. A minute later, he broke the silence between them.

"The memorial service was beautiful," he commented as Agent Gibbs sat down next to him. A soft breeze swept through the cemetery, setting in motion brightly-colored pinwheels in front of their white graves. Absently, he let his gaze track into the distance, where he knew Brian was resting. 

"They were," Gibbs agreed, and took a sip from his coffee. Clay let the dog tags fall through his fingers and drop into his other hand. 

"Sonny's family gave these to me after it was over. Said that he'd loved nothing more than being on Bravo and that I should carry them with me as a way of taking his memory and his legacy wherever I go. That it's what he would want." 

"This wasn't your fault," Gibbs informed him after a moment's pause.

"I don't know that I can believe that, at least not right now. Five good men are dead because of my father; four kids will go to sleep tonight without  _ their _ father; three wives will face tomorrow without their husbands; two girlfriends will never see their boyfriends again, and one team will never be the same. You do the math, Agent Gibbs." 

"You'll get there in time." 

After a minute, Gibbs asked the question that had been burning on his tongue for a while. 

"What are you gonna do now?" 

"I'm not re-enlisting, at least not as a SEAL. Blackburn offered to get me on another team, but I just couldn't. Even the possibility of putting another team at risk like that is too high a price to pay. Green Team said they'd be willing to take me on as an instructor, so maybe I'll do that. Who knows, perhaps I'll just travel for a while, take a road trip across the US. It's all one open road now, but all the streetlights have been destroyed." 

With that, Clay got to his feet and walked away, an invisible band of guardian angels a step behind him. 


End file.
